![]() ![]() Tobin discussed, but I think that's the last official conversation you should have with him. Understand? I don't know exactly what you and Mr. Okay? I got a call from Fredric Tobin's attorneys, and they're not happy people. You're no longer working for the township. Maybe I didn't make myself clear about your status. The first was Max, who said, "John, this is Chief Maxwell. I tried my answering machine again, and there were two new calls. But don't get married before you get your decree or it's bigamy. ![]() It's automatic." She put a light tone in her voice and said, "Well, you can't commit adultery after October first unless you remarry. You'll get a copy of the decree in the mail. I want to remind you that our one-year separation ends on October first, at which time we are legally divorced. The next call was from my ex, whose name is Robin Paine, which fits her, and who also happens to be an attorney. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion. All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys.Īpparently Mr. The lights were off, but sunlight came in through the windows. Presently, I found the gift shop-Gift Shoppe-which had once been a summer kitchen, I think, and I went in. I didn't see a wedding ring, observed Agnes. I went to the front door, and there was a yellow Post-it near the knocker that said, "Mr. I should have opened the bottle of Tobin wine and chugged it before meeting Mrs. On the other hand, I think I had geriatric overload, and the thought of talking to one more septuagenarian was more than I could handle. I wasn't sure why I was here, but something had drawn me here. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits it was just a decorated period house. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. I told her it concerned the Gordon murders. Maybe getting their coffee between cases. ![]() I pictured doing PI work for her and her idiot boss. ![]() So I told her, "It's me or your job," to which she replied, "Maybe you should change your job" and she meant it-her firm needed a private investigator and she wanted me to take the job. I mean, Jeez, lady, I know somebody has to do it, and the money is terrific, but I was feeling matrimonially challenged. The last straw was when she took the case of a high-level drug guy who, aside from his American problems, was wanted in Colombia for icing a judge. I mean, I'm trying to put scumbags in the slammer, and the woman I'm sleeping with is trying to keep them in business. He may have liked more than her style, but aside from that, our marriage became a conflict of interest. She switched sides and took a high-paying job with a big-name defense attorney who liked her style in court. Robin, by the way, was a Manhattan assistant district attorney once, which is how I met her. ![]()
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